It didn't matter if we were having dinner,
watching a film,
or just strolling along, Pat was a winner. Swans
have this aplomb too, and most morticians. We poured
spackle on his shoes, gave him purple
hermans through his blazer,
he just smiled and nodded, smooth as a balloon.
You didn't see his hands much, they were
usually in his pockets, fumbling with silver dollars.
He was taller than you might think.
I saw him duck
as we tooled under an overpass,
lips sealed like a stranger aiming a rifle. He never
told us where he lived, if he had a wife,
a girl or what. Of course
we never asked him.
He looked stony under palms, but it suited him.
You only saw his hands
when they were in the open,
or his face,
that smirk in half-bloom, and the eyes
that blinked two, maybe three times in a day.
I paused before I stepped on the pedal,
looked furtively in my rear-view.
He rocked on his heels, hands in pockets,
immaculate tie, suit still pressed.
He waved at people who passed along the freeway,
and even the dogs seemed to know him.
I hated to leave him on the side of the road,
his pantlegs ruffling in the wind.
We drove by [later that same evening]
but he was gone.
He always looks unreal on television,
like uncooked oatmeal; and his shifty eyes
avoid the camera, the constant blonde
who stares him down. Of course he's in love
with her. You can tell by his hands.
We started to doubt if it was Pat we courted
that night, bought supper for,
took to a film he strongly disliked.
He never actually said his name was Pat,
we just assumed.
I recalled next morning
the blush of a shadow on his cheek
and he never instinctively shooshed a clamor
of conversation.
She undid the top button of her blouse
but he never peeked, though
you could see the tension in his hands,
like stopping the spin of a fourteen pound ball
fresh out of the return.
We never watch the show now, having seen
the back of his head for more than thirty seconds,
having seen him sit down,
put his hand to his mouth,
politely clear his throat.
watching a film,
or just strolling along, Pat was a winner. Swans
have this aplomb too, and most morticians. We poured
spackle on his shoes, gave him purple
hermans through his blazer,
he just smiled and nodded, smooth as a balloon.
You didn't see his hands much, they were
usually in his pockets, fumbling with silver dollars.
He was taller than you might think.
I saw him duck
as we tooled under an overpass,
lips sealed like a stranger aiming a rifle. He never
told us where he lived, if he had a wife,
a girl or what. Of course
we never asked him.
He looked stony under palms, but it suited him.
You only saw his hands
when they were in the open,
or his face,
that smirk in half-bloom, and the eyes
that blinked two, maybe three times in a day.
I paused before I stepped on the pedal,
looked furtively in my rear-view.
He rocked on his heels, hands in pockets,
immaculate tie, suit still pressed.
He waved at people who passed along the freeway,
and even the dogs seemed to know him.
I hated to leave him on the side of the road,
his pantlegs ruffling in the wind.
We drove by [later that same evening]
but he was gone.
He always looks unreal on television,
like uncooked oatmeal; and his shifty eyes
avoid the camera, the constant blonde
who stares him down. Of course he's in love
with her. You can tell by his hands.
We started to doubt if it was Pat we courted
that night, bought supper for,
took to a film he strongly disliked.
He never actually said his name was Pat,
we just assumed.
I recalled next morning
the blush of a shadow on his cheek
and he never instinctively shooshed a clamor
of conversation.
She undid the top button of her blouse
but he never peeked, though
you could see the tension in his hands,
like stopping the spin of a fourteen pound ball
fresh out of the return.
We never watch the show now, having seen
the back of his head for more than thirty seconds,
having seen him sit down,
put his hand to his mouth,
politely clear his throat.
